“Phil?” He started rubbing at his face with the heel of one hand, as if he was warming it up for something spectacular. “You didn’t hear any of this from me.” “Really?” said Brigit. “You work for me, you drove me here, but you’d like to be treated as a confidential informant?” “Yes.” It didn’t matter how many times you experienced it up close and personal, somehow Phil Nellis’s utter failure to grasp the concept of irony still came as a surprise.
